


The Devil Wears Designer

by Starboundwanderer



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M, Mallory is working for the spawn of Satan, devil wears prada au, so pray for her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16960452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starboundwanderer/pseuds/Starboundwanderer
Summary: Mallory begins a new job at a fashion magazine.  It sounds easy enough, but she quickly realizes she might be in over her head with the temperamental and unpredictable Michael Langdon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Millory was literally made for this AU. Chapters will be longer later on!

  Mallory hadn’t even meant to get the job at the magazine.  She had been fresh out of college with a Journalism degree and an English minor under her belt and looking for a job.  Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t been able to find one.   

  So when a friend in the HR department of  _Runway_ had offered her a job as Michael Langdon’s assistant, she’d jumped at the opportunity.   

  “This isn’t an easy job,” Zoe had told her.  “Every single person has left within two weeks.   _But_ if you manage to hang in for a year, you’ll have invaluable connections with journalists and publishers.” 

  “I’ll do it.  It can’t be that bad,” she had said with a shrug.  It was an assistant job.  That was getting coffee and answering phones.  She knew she could do that. 

  Zoe had only laughed.   

  The first day proved she had underestimated the job.  She had been floored when she’d seen Michael—devastatingly handsome and so much younger than she’d imagined.  Then he’d scarcely looked at his new assistant, only tossing his jacket onto her desk and making his way into his office.   

  She’d desperately looked around for someone to tell her what to do with it—the thing probably cost more than her car in high school had—but all the employees kept their eyes focused on their work.  When people did look at her, it was with a cruel amusement in their eyes.  The whispered behind their hands and looked her up and down in a way that had her feeling self-conscious about herself in a way she hadn’t ever before.   

  She was then ordered to run down the street and pick up several complicated coffee orders, and oh, along the way pick up the scarves they ordered.  Michael hadn’t said thank you or shown any gratitude, only grabbed the shopping bag with the scarves and ordered her to put the coffees down on the conference room table. 

  In fact, the most personal thing Michael had said to her was, “If I catch you wearing flats again, I'll personally throw you out the window, Mary.” 

  “It’s Mallory,” she mumbled. 

  “ _What_ was that?”  He’d turned on his heel at her quiet remark. 

  Her blood ran cold.  But she’d still managed to look him in the eye and say, “My name is Mallory, sir.”  

  He'd stared at her moment before turning back to his office.  Mallory had felt like she’d been staring down the barrel of a gun and someone had finally put it away. 

  She began to wonder how long she’d actually last at this job.   

 

  “My boss is the Devil,” Mallory said as she plopped on the couch.  She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. 

  “Everyone’s boss is the Devil,” Coco told her from the kitchen. 

  “No, I think he might actually be the Devil.  Or the spawn of Satan.” 

  Coco handed her a bowl of popcorn as she flipped on the television.   

  “What’d he do today?” 

  “Today he threw a vase after an intern messed up.  But that wasn’t nearly as bad as making me run all the way to Tiffany’s _in heels_  to pick up some extravagant, useless necklace.” 

  “Why didn’t you just wear flats?” 

  “First of all, I didn’t know he’d send me three blocks one way.  He literally walked past my desk and said, ‘Pick up my package from Tiffany’s’ without even looking at me. And he said he’d throw me out a window if I wore flats again.”   

   Coco rolled her eyes.  Mallory was whining, and she knew it.  But what were friends for, if not to eat junk food and complain about work together?  She shoved popcorn in her mouth. 

  “I hate my job,” she groaned. 

  “Oh, Mallory,” Coco sighed as she put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.  “We all hate our jobs.  Welcome to the real world.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things, once again, don't go Mallory's way, all while Michael is starting to notice her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be giving a few quick updates because the holiday season is coming up, and I'll be really busy! I hope you enjoy!  
> Also, I’m picturing Michael with his hair like in ‘Sojourn’ and ‘Fire and Reign’

  She was staring blankly at the computer monitor, barely managing to keep her eyes open.  She and Coco had stayed up too late the night before watching  _Twilight Zone_ on Coco’s Netflix, and she was definitely regretting it now.  She had been so out of it that when Michael tossed his coat on her desk, as he had every morning for the past month, it hit her smack in the face and nearly knocked her tea over. 

   _Jackass_ , she thought as she hung it on the hook behind her desk.  Would it kill him to say “Good morning” or “Hello”?   _Probably_ , she thought as she remembered he’d once thrown a cell phone at the intern who mispronounced Versace.  One decent thing might actually make his heart stop beating—if he even had one. 

  “Hey, new girl,” one of the employees said as she stepped into Mallory’s space.  

  “It’s  _Mallory_.” 

  “Whatever.  Did you pick up the coffee orders?”  The woman said all this without ever glancing her way; she was far more concerned with digging through her purse for something.  Mallory grit her teeth.  She’d never been more disrespected than the weeks at this job. 

  She made a point of not speaking until the woman stopped rummaging through the bag that was probably more than Mallory and Coco’s rent for months.  When the woman finally made eye contact, Mallory smiled sweetly. 

  “Yes.  The coffee is in the conference room.  I believe Mr. Langdon is waiting for you to begin the meeting.” 

  Without so much as a thank you or a nod of acknowledgment, the woman breezed past her desk and to the conference room. 

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Mallory mumbled, shuffling some papers on her desk.  Her tendency to whisper under her breath had always gotten her trouble with her parents, and she had a feeling it’d do the same here.  But she couldn’t stop—it was her only outlet besides talking to Coco, who she knew was getting tired of hearing her complain.  So she mumbled and passive aggressively forced her employers to give her a sliver of respect. 

  She had worried that Michael would fire her after she’d corrected him, but he hadn't said anything about the incident, as if it hadn’t really registered in his world—which, she told herself, it probably hadn’t.  She got a strong sense that she barely even counted as a human to him. 

  She took a sip of her tea and gave herself a little shake to get rid of the tiredness.  She had just begun typing out an idea she had for a book when the woman who’d been so rude her suddenly ran by.  Her face was in her hands and her mascara was starting to run with tears.  Mallory stood and reached a hand out, but she was gone before she could ask what was wrong or offer her a tissue. 

  The well-dressed assortment of people Michael had met with quickly followed after her, all looking cowed.  It wasn’t difficult to figure out her boss had thrown a fit over something and sent them all away in a rage.  She sighed, sat back down, and started typing out an apology email that she knew he’d have her send out. 

  _Dear Associates,_  

 _I apologize for my behavior and hope to reschedule this meeting as soon as possible.  Please accept this (insert) as_ _consolation_ _for the_ _inconvenience_ _._  

 _Regards,_  

 _Michael Langdon, Chief Editor of_ Runway _magazine._  

  She left the part about the gift blank, unsure what he’d send them.  The last time he threw a hissy fit he’d had her send out an arrangement of insanely expensive French chocolates to each member of the board.  But these people weren't as important as the board, so she had a feeling it wouldn’t be as nice this time.  

  “Erase that,” she heard behind her.  Her blood went cold.  She spun in the chair and saw her boss walking out of the conference room and straight towards her.  He stopped in front of her.  She craned her neck to look up at him, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with him towering over her like that. 

  “But--” 

  “I apologize when necessary, not when people are stupid.” 

  “What happened?” she asked before she could stop herself.   

  “That vapid idiot Swenson had the audacity to suggest replacing our head writer—who also happens to be my godmother,” he added at her confused look. 

  “Oh.  Well, it seems a little...over-the-top to send them all away.  Why not just tell her no and continue the meeting?” 

  He grinned.  She realized she hadn’t ever seen him smile before, even a little bit.  It wasn’t a kind smile—it was a sharp dangerous one that added to his beauty in a way that made her stomach flip.   

  “People like her don’t understand the word no.  It’s an abject concept to them, but something they’ve never actually dealt with before.  But they understand dramatics.”  He met her gaze and  _winked_.  “Besides, what's the fun in just cancelling the meeting?”   

  He turned and walked to his office.  Mallory felt oddly flustered. Her heart beat fast, her stomach turned, and, despite having sat the whole time, her legs were shaking. 

 

  Michael liked her.  He’d been off put the first day when he’d walked in to see his new assistant wearing Target clothes—in greens and blues when she was clearly an autumn, not a spring—and in ugly brown flats with rounded toes and scuff marks that might’ve gone unnoticed by a man who didn’t run a fashion magazine. But he figured she’d be gone before the week was up, so he didn’t say anything.  All he bothered to learn about her was that her name started with an M, and that was only because he’d overheard her mentioning it to a coworker. 

  Then she’d proved herself competent enough during that day.  She hadn’t flinched when he’d sent her out with coffee orders and hadn’t complained when he’d made her pick up the scarves on way.  She’d answered the phone every time it rang and kept diligent notes of what he needed to know.  

  He decided he could overlook the Target clothes, but not those damn flats.  He’d expected a “Yes, sir,” and quick compliance when he told her to wear heels.  But she’d mumbled under her breath, and it had made him a bit angry, if he was honest. 

  She didn’t back down when confronted with his anger.  In fact, she had met his eyes and told him that her name was Mallory.  And today, she blushed when he winked at her.  He didn’t know  _why_ he’d winked at her; it had just happened.   

  Now he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her cheeks and neck had become tinged pink and how her hands had gripped the armrests of her chair.  He had noticed she was pretty, despite the cheap clothes and bad fashion taste, but he couldn’t  _stop_ noticing it now.  These feelings were ridiculous.  He wasn’t a teenager anymore, pining over the girl in his art class, but she somehow made him feel like that. 

  The morning after he'd winked at her, he immediately noted her hair was down.  She’d worn it up in braids or buns every day since she’d started, but now it curled softly down her back, the dark roots ending in blonde tips.  He put his jacket on her desk as opposed to throwing it at her, and she looked up in surprise.  Was he  _that_ much of an ass? he wondered. 

  He was about to push his office door open before looking over his shoulder at her. 

  “You look nice with your hair like that,” he told her.  “It frames your face well and elongates your neck.” 

  “Oh.  Thank you?” she said uncertainly.   

  “You’re welcome.”   He stepped into his office, feeling a bit foolish.   

  He had no idea Mallory was fighting a smile at his compliment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael screws up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael Langdon is a dumbass. Mallory is a confused saint of a woman.
> 
> Also, I know some elements of the movie haven't been addressed yet (the Book), but they will be making an appearance soon.

“You’ve been complaint-free for the past two days.  Did Michael Langdon die and no one knows?” Coco asked. 

  They were eating their dinner on the couch—in a small apartment, sacrifices had to be made, and they’d decided they wanted an L-shaped sectional more than they wanted a dining table.  Mallory absently twirled her pasta while her gaze was fixed on the television. 

  “No, he’s just been...more toned down lately.” 

  “Maybe he’s getting laid,” her roommate mumbled. 

  “Coco!” 

  “What? I just—wait are you jealous of some imaginary hook-up?”   

  Mallory felt her cheeks getting hot.  She stuffed her spaghetti into her mouth. 

  “Oh my God, you have a crush on Michael Langdon.  A man you called the spawn of Satan.” 

  “I do not have a crush, okay?  I just...he just...”  She shrugged.  Coco narrowed her eyes at her.  She sat her plate down on the coffee table and scooted closer, and Mallory knew she was in trouble. 

  “So you didn’t feel any sort of jealousy or anger?” 

  “No,” she lied. 

  “Not when I mentioned him knocking boots with someone else?” 

  “‘Knocking boots’?  Really, Co, are you an eighty-year-old southern woman?”  She put her half-full bowl beside her roommate’s and grabbed a throw pillow to hug close to her.  “And can you please be quiet?  I'm trying to watch the movie.” 

  Coco pursed her lips and made a “hmm” noise.  She invaded Mallory’s personal space until there barely an inch between them.  Mallory kept her eyes intently on the television.   

  “So it doesn’t bother you to think of him, naked, with someone else?” 

  “No,” she answered quickly. 

  “It doesn’t bother you to think of him on his back, hair all tousled and moaning someone else’s na—” 

  “Enough!”  Mallory stood, the pillow falling to the floor.  She felt heat rising from her neck, and her palms were sweaty. 

  “Ah-ha!  You do have a crush!  Oh, Mal, he’s your boss—worse than that he’s  _Michael_   _Langdon_.” 

  “Exactly.  He’s  _my boss_ , and he’s  _Michael Langdon_ , so I can’t think like that; I won’t think like that.  It’s just an attraction, Co.  He’s a beautiful man, and I can’t help but notice that.” 

  “Yes, he’s beautiful, but he will eat you alive.  Do you know what they say about him?  Every time he’s in a relationship, the other person goes crazy.  Like run headfirst into oncoming traffic or stalk him crazy.” 

  “You’re talking like I'm going to act on this!  It's just an attraction—a  _fleeting_ attraction!” 

  Coco sighed.  “You’re a grown-up, and I know you can keep it in your pants.  Just be careful, okay?” 

  Mallory nodded, rolling her eyes a little.  She knew her friend’s protectiveness only came from a place of love, and it was hard to be too angry when she understood that—but she could still be frustrated with her, she reasoned. 

“Okay.  Now can we finish this movie?” 

 

  Michael noticed she wouldn’t look him in the eye.  He wondered if he’d done something particularly awful in her eyes or if she’d been reading those horrid click-bait sites.  One claimed he was dating three supermodels at once—they were about six months too late with that story, and he would have hardly called what they did “dating.” 

  But still he wondered, and eventually that turned into worry.  She was best assistant he’d ever had; he couldn’t lose her over some stupid gossip columns.  That was why he went to the kitchen, found her mug, and made her tea.  Yes,  _only_ because he didn’t want to lose his assistant, he told himself as he sat the mug down.   

  She looked up at the mug, and her eyes slowly trailed up his arm until she met his eyes.  Her face flushed a little as she took the mug and brushed his fingers. 

  “What’s going on?” she asked him. 

  “I thought you could use a pick-me-up.” 

  “Oh.  Well, thank you, sir.”  She still sounded wary of his motivations, and he, quite frankly, couldn’t blame her. 

  Because he knew, deep down, that his motivations weren’t just platonic or with thoughts of being a good boss.  And he knew this with certainty at the excitement he felt when she called him “sir.” 

  “Mallory, I think you can call me Michael now, if you’d like.”   _Please let her say she will_ , he thought.   _Please_.  He couldn’t handle  _these_ types of feelings—the unprofessional, completely inappropriate ones—at work too. 

  “Michael.  Okay.  Well, thank you,  _Michael_ ,” she said, giving him a little toast with her mug.   

  He ran a hand through his blond curls, still unused to the feeling of shorter hair since he’d cut it only a few months before.  He glanced at Mallory’s dark hair and wondered what it would be like to run his hands through it. 

  “Is there anything else?” she asked. 

  And he was an idiot.  He’d been standing there too long; he looked stupid or just plain weird now. 

  “Yes, actually,” he lied.  “I want to talk to you about Paris Fashion Week—I'm assuming you know what that is?”  He hadn’t meant to sound condescending when he tacked on the last part, and he blamed Grandmother Constance for that backhanded tone he used unconsciously. 

  “I’m aware.”  Her tone had an undercurrent of frustration to it. 

  “I want you to go.  We’ll have to get you a new wardrobe, of course, but—” 

  “Wait, what?”  She almost dropped the mug of tea on her desk in surprise.  “And hey, I know I'm not the best dressed—” 

  “It’s not about being the ‘best dressed.’  It’s simply about the fact that you cannot show up to one of the most exclusive fashion events in the world in Target clothes.” 

  She furrowed her brow at him, and he felt panic.  Oh no.  He’d been an ass...again.  He kept a cool, almost indifferent face to keep her from seeing a crack in his carefully-structured facade.

  “I can’t afford any of the clothes you’ll need me to wear, so maybe it’s best I don’t go.” 

  He shrugged.  “We’ll put it on the company card, and if not, then we’ll just use mine.” 

  “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I barely fit in here.  I know I’ll only be a cheaply-dressed, fashion-ignorant burden there.” 

  “I’m taking you to _unburden_ me.  You’ll be in charge of my schedule, keeping me from murdering anyone, and knowing the names of important people.  It’s basically what you do here, but you’ll be doing it in a foreign country.”   

  She worried her lip between her teeth—and it was driving him a little crazy watching it—before she opened her mouth to speak.   

  “But--”   

  “Quite frankly, Mallory, you’re my employee and will do what I say.  And I won't be sending you on errands and coffee runs while we’re there, so I expect you to enjoy a  _paid vacation_ in Paris with little complaint.  We’ll be leaving September twentieth.”  

  He turned and walked back into his office before seeing her response.   

  He had thought of taking her to Fashion Week with him, but then decided that it was too risky for him to be in close proximity in a hotel with her.  And now, because he had poor impulse control, he was going to be with her for over a week in the most romantic city in the world.   

  He sat at his desk, put his head in his hands, and let out a groan at his own stupidity.  How badly had he just screwed up? 

   

  Mallory stared at the glass wall that separated her space from the rest of the office.  The employees of the magazine continued to work as if nothing had happened.  As if she hadn’t just been forced to go to Paris with the strangest man in the world. 

  She was angry and confused.  She’d always wanted to go to Paris, and now she was getting paid to do it.  But she was being forced to; Michael had given her no option.  Then again, this was a bit of a dream come true. 

  She simply didn’t know how to feel.  This had all happened so fast, and now, she was leaving for another country in less than a month. 

  With Michael Langdon.  Her stomach dropped, and her heart beat faster.  He was so...infuriating.  And beautiful.  And perplexing.  And just...she didn’t know.   

  She put her forehead on her desk and groaned. How was she going to survive this?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory gets on a plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly more of a filler than anything, and I apologize for that, but it felt weirdly necessary to include this chapter. This chapter is shorter, but the next one is...lengthy to say the least. And don't worry--these two are about to have a g8 time in Paris. Also Mallory deals with flying for long periods of time like me—badly.
> 
> I'll try to do at least one more update before this Friday, which is when I'll be going MIA for the holidays.
> 
> You guys are the best!

  “You’re an idiot,” Miriam Meade, his godmother and ardent truth-teller, said.

   “I know.” 

  “You’re fully aware of that fact?” 

  “Yes.” 

  “Good.” 

  Michael sat across the table from her at some pretentious Italian restaurant she loved.  He tore his piece of bread to pieces—playing with his food, as his grandmother would say. 

  “ _W_ _hy_ did you decide to take her Paris?”  

  “Poor impulse control.” 

  “And thinking with your—oh, thank you,” she said as the waiter set their plates in front of them.  Michael sighed. 

  “What am I going to do?  I can’t tell her I changed my mind; we already booked the tickets and reserved the hotel rooms.” 

  “You’re going to have to be something you’ve rarely succeeded at—being a grown-up, Michael.”  She pointed her pasta-laden fork at him.  “Don’t let your personal feelings interfere with a professional relationship.” 

  “I’ll definitely try to—” 

  “No try.  Don’t mess with this girl’s life just because she’s pretty.” 

  He put the bread down.  “It’s not just because she’s pretty, Miriam.  She’s smart, strong, and sticks up for herself around all the high-fashion snobs.” 

  “And you, I'm assuming?  You like her because she has a backbone and doesn’t fall over for your pretty face?” 

  “Yes,” he admitted after a moment.  “I guess so.” 

  “Oh boy.  You  _are_ in trouble.” 

   

  Mallory zipped up her suitcase. 

  “Any lingerie in there?” she heard from the doorframe.   

  She sighed as she turned.  Coco stood in her door, a mug of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream in her hand.   

  “This bag has my pajamas, chargers, and toiletries in it—no lingerie.” 

  “By pajamas do you mean all those holey sweats and baggy t-shirts you wear?” 

   _“Yes.”_  

  “Good.  Completely unsexy.   _Exactly_ what you need on this trip.” 

  Mallory furrowed her brow at the unsexy comment.  But she had, maybe, purposefully picked out her ugliest, oldest sweatpants and most stained t-shirts.  If Michael was repulsed by her clothes now, then--if she had a lapse in judgement--some sort of high fashion shield would send her back to her room. 

  “He sent me out with Madison yesterday to go shopping,” Mallory said.  “Apparently, I didn't have any suitable clothes for Fashion Week.” 

  Coco scoffed.  “That’s for sure.” 

  “Hey!” 

  “Well, Mal, twenty-dollar dresses from JCPenney don’t scream ‘class.’  Maybe you getting some nice clothes wouldn’t be worst thing.” 

  Mallory yanked her suitcase off the bed and sat down.  “I don’t dress  _horribly_ ; I just don’t dress like I’m on the cover of  _Vogue_.” 

  “Yeah, but—well, you’re working at a high-end fashion magazine now.  It’ll just be more...appropriate if you dress like it.”  Coco sat on the bed beside her.   

  She sighed.  She knew that her roommate was right.  “I’m nervous, Co.  How am I supposed to be with him for over a week in Paris?  I can admit he’s...attractive, but he’s still the world’s worst boss.” 

  “You’ll make it.  You’re too tough to not.  Besides,” she added, “you can just kick his ass and run away to southern France if all else fails.” 

  She rolled her eyes.  “Thanks.” 

  

  She hadn’t ever been in an airport before, so she had to ask employees for guidance several times.  She ended up checking two bags and walking to the terminal with a suitcase for the overhead rolling behind her and a chic black backpack from her and Madison’s shopping trip on her back. 

  “Are you blind or do you enjoy looking bad?” Madison had asked when they’d met up outside Gucci.   

  “What?” she asked, dumbfounded by someone’s ability to be so blatantly rude. 

  The other girl had sighed, throwing her long hair over her shoulder.  She’d thrown her cigarette butt to the ground and stomped it out with a very expensive-looking heel. 

“Let’s go.”   

  Mallory had followed her into the store, regretting that she’d agreed to go with Madison.  She’d never met the girl before that day, though she’d seen her on magazine covers and knew she was a friend of Michael’s.  She wished she could go back to not knowing her. 

  “You’re not completely hopeless,” Madison had said when Mallory had come out of the changing room in a dress with a price tag that made her nauseous.  “Besides, we don’t need you looking perfect, just like you aren’t a college student on her way to English Lit.” 

  “I have a minor in English,” Mallory told her as she yanked on the black velvet jacket.  She hated to admit it, but the other girl  _did_ have good taste. 

  “Figures.  Is that why you’re working at  _Runway_?” 

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.  I want to meet people in the journalism industry and get my foot in the door.” 

  Madison came over and started straightening her jacket and pulling the hem of her skirt down.   

  “You’ll deserve a good job after being  _his_ assistant.  I love him, but he can be a handful.” 

  Mallory’s mouth set into a hard line.  The declaration of affection played in the back of her mind as she changed out of the Gucci and back into her own.   

  When she and Madison were getting lunch, she finally asked, “How do you and Michael know each other?” 

  And when the other girl smiled in that clever, taunting way, Mallory’s stomach dropped.  What if they were a couple?  They’d be a bit perfect for each other, if she had to admit it. 

  “We met when he had just become chief editor and I was ‘up-and-coming' as they say.  I requested a meeting with him pretending I had an issue with my photoshoot, but I really just wanted the chance to make a move on him.  What?  Don’t give me that look; he’s insanely hot..”  

  Mallory jabbed at her salad with a bit too much force.  “Yeah, he is.” 

  “Well.  Nothing happened, just so you know.” 

  “Why would I care?” she asked.  “He’s my boss.  His personal life is his own.” 

  Madison gave her a knowing smiling, around her cigarette.  “Sure.  Whatever you say.” 

 

  And now she was sprinting towards the terminal, having showed up late in the awful New York traffic.  Michael gave her a side-eye when he saw her get on the plane looking distinctly disheveled but, shockingly, said nothing about it.  By the plane was taking off, Mallory had taken two Benadryl and was drifting off to sleep. 

  She woke and blearily watched a movie, unable to sleep around so many people.  She’d never flown before then and found that she didn’t really like it all that much.  She loved looking at the clouds and the sensation of flying, but actually having to be on a plane—a cramped, small plane that dulled her senses and made her sick to her stomach—was a bad experience, despite being in first class. 

  When it finally ended, she wanted to cry but was too dehydrated to.  She let Michael guide her through the unfamiliar airport, too tired to be surprised when he spoke perfect French to an employee.  He led her to a car and eventually she was taking a hotel key from him. 

  She took a shower, threw on her pajamas, and fell asleep.  The only thought that crossed her mind before it went blank was that this was real; she was in Paris. 

  And it was with Michael Langdon, of all the people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Mallory have to admit their feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello! This is a long chapter to make up for the fact that the holidays are coming up and there most likely won't be another update until January! Thank you all for your support, comments, and kudos <3
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: in this universe, Tate and Violet are Michael's biological parents

  Her legs ached.  Wearing stilettos all day had caused her to tense up from her feet to her lower back.  These people were insane; the event didn’t even start for four days, but they all insisted on having meetings, brunches, lunches, and get-togethers that lasted  _hours_.  Mallory had swiftly moved Michael from one important person to the next, not getting to sit down until they made it to a small restaurant at the heart of Paris.  They were led down stairs—her whole body was crying in protest with every step—to small room crowded with tables.  The only illumination was the dim lights on the chandeliers and the candles on the centers of each table. 

  Michael pulled her chair out, and she thought she’d cry as she carefully sat down.  She felt his hand between her shoulder blades as he helped her into the seat.  She hadn’t been doing a great job of hiding how much pain she was in for the last few hours, and he’d obviously taken note. 

  “Who’s this, Michael?” asked the woman across the table from them.  She was stunning with softly curling blonde hair and dark eyes.   

  “Delia, meet Mallory Jenks, my assistant.  Mallory, meet Cordelia Goode, chief editor of  _Trends_.” 

  Cordelia gave her a friendly smile as they shook hands.  “Pleasure to meet you, Mallory.  This is my assistant, Devin Bernard.” 

  After they were all done with introductions and Michael had taken his seat beside her, Mallory said, “I’m sorry if I seem rude.  I’ve been running around in these heels all day, and they’re killing me.” 

  Cordelia laughed.  “Oh, trust me, sweetheart, I understand.  I can’t believe he’s been forcing you to wear heels today.”  She threw a glare at Michael, who had the audacity to shrug at it.  

  “I didn’t pick her outfit out.  I wondered what you were thinking when you showed up in the lobby wearing those things,” he told them with a wave of his hand. 

  Her mouth fell open in disbelief.  She clenched her fists on the table cloth.  “You told me if I wore flats again, you’d throw me out a window.” 

  He spread his arms wide.  “Do you see any windows for me to toss you from?  Besides, there are other options—wedges, short heels, flats that aren’t hideous and old.”  

  “Michael,” Cordelia chastised, bringing her wine glass to her lips.  “Leave the girl alone.  Just because she couldn’t read your mind and you gave vague instructions is no reason to be so rude.” 

  Mallory waited for him to retort or throw his wine on her.  No one talked to Michael Langdon like that and got away with it.  But he rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. 

 The rest of dinner went well.  The editors talked about fashion and what would be the upcoming trends.  She wasn’t quite sure how to contribute to the conversation, so she and Devin conversed.  They didn’t have much in common, but they could hold a mildly interesting conversation with each other.  Besides, he was handsome with his dark curls and darling smile—it felt good to flirt with a man who was simple and easy to understand, not like her infuriating, mystery of a boss. 

  Eventually, Michael and Devin went outside to smoke.  Mallory hadn’t known he smoked before then, and he assured her it was a very rare vice, but after “dealing with airheads and pretentious, ladder-climbing socialites,” he needed it. 

  “So,” Cordelia said with a sly smile, “how long has this been going on between you two?” 

  Mallory’s stomach dropped, but she didn’t let it show beyond the slight tensing of her shoulders.  “How long has what been going on?” 

  “Oh, sweetheart, I've known Michael a long time.  He gets easier to read after a while, and he is completely smitten with you.” 

  “He is not,” Mallory told her with a laugh.  The idea was preposterous to her.  She was attracted to him, yes, but the thought of him—a man who spent his days surrounded by supermodels—feeling the same was ridiculous.  She knew that she was pretty, but she wasn’t one of those tall, willowy creatures who looked ethereal.  

  “Yes he is.  And you are too.  I saw the way you tensed when he touched your arm and those looks you kept sneaking.” 

  “Okay, that part is true,” she reluctantly admitted.  “But you can’t tell him, Cordelia.  He’ll fire me, and I need this—” 

  The other woman started laughing.  “He’d be overjoyed if I told him, but I won’t, for your own privacy.  I’m just telling you that he has feelings for you too.” 

  Unable to resist and knowing it was a bad idea, she asked, “How can you tell?” 

  “I suspected he felt something for you when he helped you sit down.  But I  _knew_ when you started flirting with Devin.  He immediately noticed and put his arm around the back of your chair.  Sweetie, no one, especially man like Michael Langdon, does that unless they’re telling the world to back off.” 

  Mallory hadn’t even noticed he’d done it.  But she could recall feeling a bit of heat at her back when she and Devin had begun talking.   

  “He just—he does stuff like that.” 

  “He’s not touchy-feely, if you haven’t noticed.” 

  “No, but he likes to take up a lot of space.  He probably felt like there weren’t enough people looking at him.”  She was making excuses, pulling them out of thin air, because the thought of it being true was...overwhelming. 

  They two men returned.  Cordelia kept giving her knowing looks and grins.  Mallory couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel, to lock herself away and be alone for the rest of the night. 

 

  She managed to get into the taxi and even onto the elevator, though she was leaning heavily on Michael the whole walk there.  She finally gave up when the doors closed and took the shoes off.  Her legs almost buckled beneath her.  She gripped the rail in the elevator. 

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, unsure whether she was in pain or not.  Her feet throbbed and her toes slowly had feeling going back into them.  Her head pounded with every beat of her heart. 

  “How about tonight you wear flats?” Michael suggested. 

  “No disrespect intended, but I wouldn’t be leaving the hotel in anything else.” 

  He smirked at her comment as the doors opened on their floor.  Mallory took off to her room as quickly as her tired legs would take her.  She collapsed on the bed without bothering to take her skirt and blouse off. 

 

  She woke about an hour later.  Her legs were  _sore_ ; she hadn’t felt like this since her days on the track team in high school after a hard practice.  She put on her white, two-piece swimsuit and threw her hair up before heading to the spa.  She’d spied a hot tub earlier and felt that was exactly what she needed right now.  It was massive, much bigger than any backyard hot tub she’d been in.  The tiles in the room were shiny black, the ceiling looked like a cathedral, and steam filled the room, giving it a strange, otherworldly look.

  This whole hotel was fancier than any place she’d ever been, but it was the service that floored her.  People waited on her hand and foot, and they did it with a smile.  As she sat in the hot tub, a waitress brought her a platter of strawberries and a glass of iced water without her even having to ask.  

  She could understand why these high-industry people were so demanding, if this was what they’d grown up with.  It’d be difficult to know what normal people did when a whole army of people were lined up to act on any whim a person had. 

  She was neck-deep in the water, nearly falling asleep as her legs and back throbbed, when someone joined her.  They sat close to her, but she didn’t care; nothing in the world could ruin her moment of bliss. 

  She didn’t bother to open her eyes, so she was very surprised when she heard Michael Langdon’s voice saying, “You’re supposed to sleep in your bed, not the spa.” 

  She sat up, water splashing over the edge and onto the tiles.  He was grinning at her.  She failed to keep her eyes from looking at his bare chest—damn him, he looked like a marble statue.  She glanced around and saw they were the only two in the hot tub, and that  _wasn’t_ good. 

 “What’re you doing here?  No supermodels to see or employees to terrorize?” she asked a bit snappily.   

  “You have a tattoo?” he asked, eyeing her side and ignoring her question. 

  “What?” 

  She followed his gaze to her ribcage, just below where the top’s band covered.  She lifted her arm so he could have a better view of it.  It was a pair of folded angel’s wings, about the size of a quarter, and she was so terrified of needles that she knew she’d never get another one. 

  “Yeah,” she said.  “It’s for my grandma.  She died last year.” 

  He scooted closer.  He lifted a hand and traced the tattoo.  She had to stop herself from shuddering under his touch, but definitely felt her skin tingling.   

  He seemed unaware of the reaction he’d caused as he told her, “I’m sorry for your loss.  I don’t know what I'd do without my grandmothers.” 

  “I read that you were raise by them?”   

  He narrowed his eyes at her.  Had she pried too much?  Did he not want his employees searching his name online?  She brought her arm back down to the water, brushing his thigh under the water.  Were they sitting  _that_ closely? 

  “Reading up on me?” 

  She shrugged and looked over his shoulder.  “I just wanted to know who’d I’d be working for.” 

  “Fair enough, I guess.  Yes, I was raised by my grandparents.  My biological parents got pregnant with me just when they were graduating college—I was obviously unplanned, but they decided to keep me. 

  Then when my dad was picking up my mom from the airport, they got into a wreck and neither one survived.  After that, I was raised by their parents, who happened to be neighbors.” 

  “I’m sorry, Michael.  What were their names?” 

  “Violet and Tate.  Everyone says I look like my dad, but honestly I think I take after my Granny Viv.”  He smiled, caught up in his own moment.  It made him look less intimidating.  “What about you?  Any tragic backstory you’d like to share?” 

  She snorted.  “Nope.  Normal childhood, normal parents, normal...everything, really.” 

  “Well, where do you want to go, Mallory?”  

  “What do you mean?”  

  He smiled at her, and she felt his fingers brush against the top of her thigh.  It made her stomach flip, and she was glad she was already red from the hot tub or else he would’ve seen her blush.   

  “You’re obviously too good to stay being an assistant forever.  Why are you really at  _Runway_ , working for a man they’ve called the spawn of Satan?” 

  Her eyes widened, and her brain traced back to every time she’d called him that and worse.  He laughed at her panic, the sound echoing off the walls. 

  “I’m well aware of what people think of me; I just don’t care as long as they get their job done,” he told her.  “Honestly, why are you there?” 

  “I needed a job, and this fit the criteria.”  She shrugged, still a bit thrown by his nonchalant attitude towards others’ perception of him. 

  “Okay.  But where do you want to go?  What’s next?” 

  She’d been meeting his gaze, but this made her look away.  Part of her was terrified he’d see the answer in her eyes—that she really didn’t know; she was freefalling through life with no real idea of what she wanted.   

  “I thought I wanted to work in journalism, but not anymore.  It just doesn’t feel right.” 

  “Oh, you’re definitely not a journalist,” he agreed.  “You’d end up pummeling your sources if they were rude.  Why don’t you write a book?” 

  “I’ve thought about it, but...” 

  “But?” 

  “Can I do it?  Would anyone want to read it?  What if everyone just hated it?” 

  Michael sighed.  “That’s a risk we’ve all got to take.  And I know people would read what you write.  You send out some of the most intriguing and well-written emails,” he teased, bumping her shoulder with his. 

  She bumped him back, a shock going across where their skin met.  A small smile was forming on her lips as she looked at him.  They’d somehow moved even closer, her leg now resting on top of his. 

  Her gaze flicked down to his lips.  He carefully raised a hand from the water and cupped her cheek.  The water made his skin almost unbearably hot against hers.  He leaned down, and Mallory closed her eyes.  

  Their lips were just about to touch when the door to the room opened, loud enough to make her realize what was happening.  They broke apart, quickly putting three feet between themselves.  Her heart pounded and her head spun as she got out of the hot tub and practically ran to her room. 

 

  An idiot.  A dumbass.  Completely stupid. 

  Michael Langdon was all these things.  Why had he touched her?  Why had he even talked to her?  He should’ve walked back up to his room the second he saw her in the hot tub. 

  But instead he got in the water with her, intentionally close, and started talking to her.  It felt like the barriers between boss and employee dropped for a moment, and they were almost friends.   

  Then he’d seen her eyes go to his lips, and his poor impulse control acted up again.  Before he could stop himself, he was reaching up and touching her, leaning in, and then the door had opened.  In waltzed Cordelia Goode, and he cursed her name in his head. 

  “Whoa, what happened to her?  Did I interrupt something?” she asked with a grin as she got in with him. 

  “Nothing that should've been happening in the first place.” 

  “Just tell her how you feel, Michael.” 

  “It’s not that easy.  She works for me; even thinking about her that way will get HR on my back.  Besides,” he said, sinking deeper into the water, “she doesn’t need to get involved with someone like me.” 

  “Don’t start any of that mopey, woe-is-me bullshit.” 

  “It’s not mopey, woe-is-me.  She’s a good, kindhearted person.  I’m...” 

  “...an asshole?” 

  “Exactly.  That.” 

  Cordelia rolled her eyes and mumbled, “You two are going to be the death of me.” 

  “Where’s Devin?” he asked, tone a bit more biting than he’d intended. 

  “I don’t know.  Probably at the bar flirting with some girl.  Or he might’ve even gone looking for Mallory.  They really hit it off at dinner.” 

  Michael huffed and rolled his eyes.  As if.  Mallory had hardly been intrigued by his oh-so-riveting views on slam poetry and modern art.  When he’d snuck glances at her, she’d been politely smiling and contributing to some of the conversation, which he monopolized, but overall had been uninterested.   

  Still, he’d barely been able to keep from hitting the boy over the head with a plate when he’d started checking out Mallory, looking her up and down when she her gaze was elsewhere.  Michael had settled for resting his arm on the back of her chair, which she was oblivious to but had made Devin stop looking at her like she was his next meal. 

  He knew it was stupid and possessive, but he couldn’t sit there and let some little idiot think he even had a shot with her.  She was too good for him. 

  “Oh, God, Delia, what am I going to do?”  He felt sick to his stomach. 

  She chuckled.  “Either let it go—which is something I think  _you_ will have a lot of trouble with—or just tell her how you feel.  Damn the consequences in the HR Department.  Sometimes there aren’t even any.  Remember when you worked for me?” 

  She winked at him.  Yes, he remembered.  He’d been twenty-five and moving through the ranks of the magazine quickly with his wit and sharp eye.  Delia had made a move on him, and he had happily reciprocated.   

  They had only lasted a summer, as she quit and moved to her current magazine, but they had always only been a fling.  Michael had taken her job of co-editor and been in the big office within three years.   

  “But we were never serious,” he told her. 

  “And this is?” 

  Idiot.  Again, he was an idiot, admitting something like that. 

  He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and finally said, “If anything  _ever_ happened, I'd want it to be serious.” 

  “Awww,” she crooned.  “You’re growing up, Michael.” 

  He splashed water at her.  “Shut up.” 

 

  He paced the opulent lobby restlessly.  His dress shoes clicked loudly against the floor.  Where was Mallory? 

  Had she forgotten they had the art gallery tonight?  Or had their incident sent her on the first flight home?  He couldn’t blame her, quite frankly.  But when he asked the man at the desk if the woman he’d arrived with had left, the man said he hadn’t see her since they’d gotten back that afternoon. 

  He soon found himself standing in front of her door, worry knotting his stomach.  He rapped his knuckles against the door, rings on his fingers making it sound louder in the long hallway. 

  “Mallory?  Are you okay?” he asked. 

  After a moment, she said, “Yeah, I'm fine.” 

  “What’s going on?” 

  He heard her sigh.  “I need some help.  The door’s unlocked.” 

  His hands shook as he opened the door.  Her dresses were hanging in the closet, shoes strewn out all about.  She stood by the full-body mirror, a Chanel dress unzipped at the back.  It was mid-thigh and split her in half, one side gold and the other black.  Her eyes were done up with dark brown eyeshadow and winged eyeliner, and she’d contoured her face.  In the low light from her bedside lamp, she looked angelic. 

  “I can’t zip it up,” she explained. 

  He felt his lips quirking up as he stepped behind her.  His heart pounded as he grasped the zipper low on her back. 

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.  His voice was a bit lower and raspier than usual. 

  She shrugged.  He noticed she was trembling a bit.  Her shaking mimicked his own. 

  “Breathe out,” he quietly told her.  He moved in closer. 

  She exhaled, and he slid the zipper up.  He couldn’t resist running a knuckle up her spine before the zipper.  She was so beautiful and so strong, and he couldn't do this anymore.  He leaned in, pressing his body to hers, and brought his lips close to her ear. 

  “It suits you.” 

  She met his eyes in the mirror.  Color was rising in her cheeks and her breathing was becoming shallow.  He wondered if she could feel his heart pounding against his sternum.  He wrapped his hands around her elbows and slowly brought them up to her shoulders, watching for any sign of hesitation in her.  _He_ wanted this, but he wasn't sure _she_ did.  He pressed a kiss to her neck.   

  “Michael,” she breathed.   

  “If you don’t want this...” 

  She tilted her head, giving him more access to her neck.  He kissed up it until he was at her jaw.  He spun her around and pulled her against his body with a bit more aggression than he’d intended, but she didn’t seem to mind.  He stared for a moment, simply taking her in. 

  Then he pressed his mouth to hers.  She reached up and tangled her hands in his hair, roughly pulling at it.  He walked them to her bed and gently laid her down.  She started unbuttoning his shirt, and he was soon taking it and his jacket off. 

  He scooted farther onto the bed while his hands worked the zipper of her dress down again.  Together they pulled it over her head and threw it onto the floor, and normally a Chanel dress getting carelessly tossed to the ground would make him see red, but he had other concerns with Mallory under him in a lacy black bra and panty set.  He ran a finger along the lace lining just above her tattoo.

  His mouth went to her collarbone, where he scraped his teeth and sucked against her skin.   

  “Hey!” she said breathlessly.  “No hickies this week!” 

  He grinned as he looked up at her.  “We’ll see about that.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Mallory talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm coming out of a Christmas-dinner-induced coma and decided to post. This is short, but the next chapter will be decently long, and I felt mildly guilty for not posting for so long.
> 
> Enjoy!

  They didn’t make it to the gala that night, and Michael couldn’t bring himself to regret the next morning as he woke next to Mallory.  He gave a quick kiss to her temple before getting up to take a shower.   

  He had been basking in the afterglow, but as he stood alone in the shower, he began to worry, as he was prone to do.  What if she didn’t want anything more than a one-night stand?  What if she didn’t think he was serious?  What did this mean for their professional relationship? 

  These questions plagued him as he brushed his teeth, pulled on a robe, and stood staring in the mirror.  This felt like a perfect little bubble trapped in time.  He knew when he stepped out the door and they saw each other in the light of day, things would be different. 

  He finally told himself to stop being a whiner, and forced himself to the bedroom area of her suite.  She was rifling through her closet, hair wet and wearing only his button up.  Seeing her like that pushed his worries from his mind and made other ideas appear. 

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and put his cheek on her shoulder.  When he took a breath in, he realized she smelled like  _him_.  A strange mixture of pride and possessiveness took over him as he tightened his arms. 

  “I went to your suite to shower,” she said.  “I hope you don’t mind.” 

  He only answered by biting her shoulder through his shirt.  She gave a quiet gasp.   

  “I guess you don’t mind,” she teased, though her voice was a little breathless.  She turned in his grasp and put her arms around his neck.  His hands moved low and grasped at her hips, ready to lift her. 

  “We need to talk,” she told him. 

  And there it was.  The words that made his stomach drop.  He felt like a balloon inside his chest had been popped. 

  “You’re right,” he agreed as he reluctantly let his arms slide away.   

  They walked back to the bed, where she grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to chest.  He wanted to brush her hair behind her shoulder but stopped himself. 

  “Was this a one-time thing?” she asked. 

  Her body was tight with anxiety.  He wondered what answer she wanted.  Yes? No?  Maybe?  He didn’t know; all he really knew was that he didn’t want to get hurt. 

  He smirked nonchalantly and reached to trace a finger down her arm. 

  “It can be a two-time thing, if you play your cards right.” 

  “I’m being serious.” 

  “Maybe I am too.” 

  “No,” she snapped, slamming the pillow onto the bed.  His eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “You’re not.  I know that stupid smirk and casual attitude are all just a front.  Now I want a real answer—what is this?” 

  She stared at him with such passion and fire that he shivered.  The mask of indifference slid away. 

  “I-I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.  “But I know I want it to be serious.” 

  “Really?”  Her voice held such vulnerability that he felt it might break him.  He rarely saw people with their guard down—everyone tended to be wary around him, and for good reason if he were honest with himself. 

  “Really.  But I understand if you...don’t.” 

  “What?” 

  “I get it if you don’t want this to be anything.”  He swallowed, throat suddenly dry as if the words were taking his voice away. 

  “Why would I not want this to be something?”  Her brow was furrowed, and she was looking at him like he was stupid. 

  “Because...I’m Michael Langdon.”  He shrugged.  This seemed the obvious answer to him. 

  “And?” 

  “And....”   _And I'm unlovable_ , he finished in his head.   

  “And  _what_ , Michael?”  She scooted closer to him.  She took his hand between hers and brought it to chest.   

  “And I tend to attract trouble, which is something you don’t deserve.” 

  “That’s it?  Really?  Michael, no offense, but that’s kind of stupid.” 

  He laughed.  “Maybe it is.” 

  “I want this,” she said after a moment.  “Or I at least want to try.” 

  “Me too.”

  She smiled at him, and it was like looking into the sun.  She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, but Michael was an opportunist, so he caught her face in his hands and held it there while he kissed her for real.  Soon Mallory was pushing him down on the bed, the shirt and robe long forgotten.

  They didn’t make it to the brunch with Cordelia, but he had a feeling Delia didn’t mind.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia intervenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! A new chapter is finally here! Enjoy :)

  The days before the actual Fashion Week began would always be a blur to Mallory.  She and Michael weren’t public with their relationship because neither was quite sure what it was yet, so they put on their professional faces in public.  But as the week began, more of her things were in Michael’s suite than her own, and he was the one who zipped up her dresses and skirts every morning and unzipped them at night. 

  “Thank God,” she said as she plopped on the bed.  Michael had declined the invitation to go out for dinner mostly on her behave, and she barely managed to get her shoes off.  She felt like she was going to fall apart. 

  “It’s not that bad, Mallie,” Michael told her as took his black tie off.  “You just need to work on your stamina.” 

  “Stamina?  Really?  This isn’t a marathon; it’s work.” 

  “This job _is_ a marathon.” 

  To her surprise, he tossed the tie and dark red blazer onto the dresser without a second thought.  He hadn’t really snapped at her since that day he’d told her she was going to Paris Fashion Week—which had been over a month ago—but he did follow behind her picking up fallen pieces of clothes and chastising her like a mother to a child.  She found it a bit amusing when he got red in face about it and his brows furrowed, but she still made an effort to hang her clothes up properly. 

  “Roll over,” he ordered. 

  “What?  Why?” 

  He rolled his eyes.  “Can’t you just go along with something for once?” 

  She sighed as she rolled onto her stomach.  She felt the mattress dip as he got on it and put a knee on either side of her waist.  She tensed up, unsure what was happening.   

  Then his hands started working the knots out of her shoulders.  She practically melted into the silk sheets.  He diligently worked down her back, taking care to focus on her lower back, where she held all her tension.  

  Despite wanting to stay awake and see the whole thing through, it was impossible to keep her eyes open with the quiet sound of Michael’s breathing and his hands on her.  She didn’t even realize she’d fallen asleep until she was waking up to sunlight hitting her in the face. 

  She sat up, blearily looking around the room.  It was the first morning of the official start of Fashion Week, and they had to be there at nine o’clock.  She practically fell out of the bed as she reached for her phone to check the time. 

  Seven forty-five.  She gasped.  It took them both an hour to get ready and at least twenty minutes to get to the actual runway. 

  “Michael,” she said as she rolled over.  She shook his shoulder.  “It’s time to wake up.  And get dressed fast, okay?” 

  He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.  She got out of bed, crawling over him and eliciting a soft chorus of “ow” and “stop.” 

  She took the fastest shower of her life, put her unwashed hair in a French braid, and brushed her teeth furiously fast—she might’ve used Michael’s toothbrush, but she reasoned that he didn’t need to know that.  When she reached the suite, he was already dressed in black pants, a white shirt with black lace on the collar, and a mid-thigh length black jacket.  

  “I already picked out your outfit,” he told her.  

  She ran up and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  “Thank you.” 

  “We need to look coordinated.” 

  She wrinkled her nose as she pulled on the black pencil skirt.  “We’re not going to become that couple that matches their outfits, are we?” 

  “Matching is tacky,” he said, walking over to her and helping her pull on the white turtle neck.  “We’re  _coordinating_.” 

  She was putting in her earrings while he slipped the chunky black combat boots on her feet.  He slid his hands up her calf and rested his chin on her knee. 

  “We never got to finish what we started last night.  _Someone_ fell asleep,” he teased. 

  She grinned at him and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  “We’ll finish it tonight.” 

  “Promise?” 

  “Yes,” she told him as she laced her fingers through his hair.  “I always keep my promises—like being there at nine o’clock.” 

  She stood and strolled across room.  She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that he was following behind her. 

   

  This was the opportunity of a lifetime; people would’ve killed to be on the front row of one of the most elite fashion shows in the world. 

  But Mallory was...bored.  She struggled to maintain focus on the event, each model looking like the last and each outfit seeming more absurd than the one before it.  She snuck glances at Michael and saw he was enraptured.  His eyes carefully scanned each outfit—she was sure he was picking each one to pieces in his mind, deciding what was good and what was atrocious. 

  She enjoyed watching how he took everything in.  The way his gaze sharpened and focused in, the pursing of his lips when he didn’t like something, or even how he’d sit back and cross his arms when he  _did_ like something.  She was learning that Michael Langdon didn’t say much with his words, but he said almost everything with his body language. 

  Cordelia, on the other hand, spoke as well through facial expressions as she did words.  She was sitting on Mallory’s left, and kept giving them grins and eyerolls that said, “I know something happened.” 

  After the show was over and they were all mingling at the afterparty, Cordelia sidled up to her, wine in hand and eyes sparkling.  The black stilettos made the older woman tower, and in the red pantsuit, she looked intimidating.  

  “Has Michael gotten more limber?” she asked. 

  “What?” Mallory said, dropping the macron back to the plate in surprise. 

  “He was always talented but a little stiff.  I assume that in five years he’s learned how to loosen up a little bit.” 

  Her brow furrowed.  “You and Michael...?” 

  “Yes, sweetheart, but trust me it was never serious.  We were both only interested in fun, not feelings.” 

  “He never mentioned it.” 

  She couldn’t help the feelings of jealousy and insecurity that crept in.  Cordelia was a confident, worldly woman—the exact kind of woman she pictured a man like Michael Langdon with.  She felt so...inexperienced in comparison.  The age gap hadn’t bothered her before, but suddenly eight years felt like a chasm between them. 

  Cordelia smiled kindly at her.  She sat the wine down and put a comforting hand on Mallory’s shoulder. 

  “He’s not interested in just  _fun_ with you, Mallory Jenks.  He told me he wants something serious.” 

  Mallory found Michael’s gaze across the room.  He was staring at her similarly to way he looked at the outfits on the runway—with single-minded intensity, as though she were the only thing in the world.  Their earlier conversation came back to her, with each saying they wanted to try. 

  “I do, too,” she confessed.  “I really want this to work between us, but...” 

  “But?” 

  “He’s my boss; I'm eight years younger than him; I  _just_ got out of college—” 

  “Do you feel like you’re ready for this?” Cordelia interrupted.  

  She pursed her lips.  Part of he was filled with anxiety at the thought of a serious relationship when she hadn’t ever been with someone longer than six months, but the idea of not maintaining this with Michael was heart wrenching. 

  “All I know is that I want to try,” she finally answered.  “I really like him, and I know this could be something good.” 

  “With Michael that’s a big step.  Not many people have ever really tried to get close to him just because they wanted to  _try_.  They’ve always wanted something from him.  Money, power, a job, sex—but no one has ever really wanted Michael just for...Michael.” 

  She wondered what it was like to be used like that.  She’d always been surrounded by those who enjoyed her company, not because they wanted something from her.  Then again, she supposed that with his beauty and power, almost everyone would want something from him. 

  She thanked Cordelia and made her way across the room.  Michael was being schmoozed up by a model who wanted desperately to be on the cover of Runway.  The woman gave a fake laugh and then ran a finger across his chest.  Michael swatted her hand away and rolled his eyes.   

  “Michael,” Mallory said as she got close, “we have to meet Myrtle Snow soon.” 

  He gave her a silent look of thanks, and they quickly headed for the exit. 

  “Where are we meeting Myrtle?” he asked when they were about a block away from the afterparty. 

  She looked up at him and smiled.  “We aren't.  You just looked bored out of your mind.” 

  He returned the smile and took her hand in his.  “Good plan.  If I was there for five more minutes, I was going to beat someone over the head with a Louboutin.”  

  “Red bottoms for a different reason.” 

  He snorted and pushed her with his shoulder.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to Michael and Mallory's story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is the final chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it! I realize I never really got to The Book or anything, but it just never quite fit for me.  
> Anyway, thanks for being here and reading. You're all wonderful <3

Paris came and went.  Michael sat silently staring out the window of the car as it drove them to the airport.  Mallory twined her fingers with his, unsure what he was so upset about but knowing he needed to think it through. 

  The week had been wonderful, especially the moments they had alone.  It had all felt like a dream, but they were quickly returning to a reality where their relationship wasn’t feasible.  

They hadn’t discussed it yet, but he knew he wasn’t going to give her up.  Keeping it secret wouldn’t work—he knew he couldn’t order his girlfriend around and watch those snobs be rude to her.  He didn’t want to quit because he’d worked so hard to get where he was, but he didn’t want her to miss an opportunity either.   

  But how big of an opportunity was this, really?  She was a glorified secretary, if he was being honest with himself.  And he knew some friends in publishing who’d be more than willing to help her.   

  It seemed so simple then—he’d fire her, and then they’d work out a way for her to get a book deal or work at a publishing company.  It wasn’t a bad plan at all.  But, in hindsight, he realized he should’ve presented it a bit better. 

  After about twelve hours on a plane, they were in a car heading for his apartment, wanting one more night alone together before work started up the next day.  Mallory anxiously fiddled with the rings on her fingers and was silent for most of the elevator ride up to his penthouse.  He knew she was letting worry gnaw at her when her face didn’t light up at the opulence of his building’s lobby, as it had with almost every bit of grandeur in Paris. 

  She sat her suitcases beside his couch and turned to face him, wringing her hands and shoulders stiff.  He put his suitcases near hers, grabbed her hands, and they both sat on the couch.  She looked at him, face pale and tears in her eyes. 

  “Michael--” 

  ”Wait,” he interrupted.  “Just wait.  I think I know what you’re about to say, and I think I have a solution.”  He felt her hands clench around his, and she nodded at him.  “Okay.  You’re fired, first of all--” 

  “What?!”  She stood, eyes bright with anger.   

  “Hold on, let me explain—” 

  “You’re  _firing_ me?  Seriously?” 

  “Mallory, please, let me finish this,” he pleaded.  He patted the cushion next to him and she saw, though obviously not inclined to listen to him.  “That was a bad way to start this.” 

  “You think?” 

  “I can’t order my girlfriend to get me coffee and watch people with off-season Gucci tell you you’re incompetent; I just can’t.  And you’re not getting anything out of this job.  You’re too bright and talented to stay here anyway, so I'm offering you something—let me fire you, get you in touch with some friends in publishing, and—” 

  He was cut off by her throwing her arms around him.  He hugged her back, hardly believing she wasn’t pummeling him with a suitcase. 

  “Thank you,” she said against his shoulder.  

  “You don’t even have to write a book or anything—you could just help people get published, or—” 

  “No,” she told him as she pulled away, keeping both his hands in hers.  “I want to try to write a book.  But just working at a publishing company...Michael, that’s where I need to be right now; I can feel it.” 

  “I know.”  He smiled at her.  “It’s  _exactly_ where you need to be right now, not at a magazine getting orders from Tiffany’s and listening to us obsess over whether a belt is cerulean or aqua.” 

  “And you were a terrible boss.” 

  His brow furrowed.  “I wasn’t that bad.” 

  “You were kind of the worst.” 

  “Come on, I was okay.” 

  “You threatened to throw me out a window.” 

  “ _Once_.  Don’t be dramatic.” 

  She rolled her eyes.  “Oh, shut up.” 

_One year later_

Mallory hadn’t been back to the building for  _Runway_ in months, but it was still familiar as she rode the elevator up.  She couldn’t help but think on the first time she’d ridden this elevator—she'd been nervous, excited, and dressed in clothes that were too big and unflattering.  Now as she rode to the top floor, she was dressed sleekly in a formfitting black dress, red stilettoes, and a thick rope of pearls at her neck.  Her hair was straightened, and her makeup was kept simple with red lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, and eyebrows. 

  She stepped off the elevator and made her way to Michael’s office, thankful it was six and everyone was gone for the day.  She’d stopped coming to this building mainly because the people who’d looked her up and down, who’d whispered about the new girl in the ugly sweaters and unseemly skirts, who’d ignored her when she’d tried to talk to them, now wanted to cozy up to her.  They complimented her outfits and said she looked stunning, as if they had always been friends.  It made her horribly uncomfortable—they'd been so rude to her, and now they only wanted to talk to her because she and Michael were together.   

  “M, you ready?” she said as she stepped into his office.  He was dressed in a black velvet suit, the only thing truly Michael about the whole outfit being the silver rings on his fingers. 

  “Yeah, sweetie, just a second,” he told her without looking up.  He was poring over the treacherous Book that would eventually become the next issue of  _Runway_.  She went over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out the city.  She’d grown up on a farm and sometimes failed to see how the sprawling, concrete-and-steel buildings were beautiful, but at times like this she understood.  She tucked away the mental image of the city for a scene in the book she was working on.  The year in publishing had done wonders for her writing ability, and she found the best inspiration was these quiet moments. 

  “Oh wow,” she heard behind her.  She turned, a grin on her lips.  Michael had finally looked up at her, and his mouth was slightly open.  His eyes reverently took her in, head to toe, as though she were the moon or sun. 

  “You like it?”  She spun to give him a complete view.  “The dress is Chanel, but the shoes are Tommy Choo.” 

  “You look stunning.  As always.” 

  He walked around his desk and kissed her lightly so as to not smear her lipstick. 

  “I love you,” he said. 

  “I love you too.  But we’re going to miss our reservations if we don’t go.” 

  She turned to walk out, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her back to him.  She expected to see a wicked grin on his face, a suggestion that they miss their reservation in favor of knocking everything off his desk and spending their time there.  But his face only held anxiety, and his hands shook as he grasped hers. 

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, putting a hand to his face.  “M, are you okay?” 

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine; I'm just—nervous,” he admitted. 

  “Nervous?  Why?” 

  “Mallory...” 

  “What is going on, Michael?  You’re freaking me out a little.” 

  “I love you,” he repeated.  “I love you so much more than I ever thought I could love anyone.  I was going to wait to do this, but I can’t, not with you looking like this and with it burning a hole in my pocket.”  He dropped to one knee, and Mallory gasped.  She suddenly felt her legs shaking as his hands had been.  “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.  I think I was in love with you from the moment you stood up to me and told me your name.  I  _know_ I was in love with you when I forced you to go to Paris with me—in fact, I think some part of me was hoping you’d fall just as head over heels as I already was. 

  “Mallory Anne Jenks, you’re the sun my life revolves around, and I want to be with you forever.  Will you marry me?”  He pulled a velvet box out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a stunning silver ring, the diamond offset by a sapphire on either side. 

  Mallory couldn’t speak with her throat so tight, so she nodded.  When Michael looked uncertain at her response, she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around him. 

  “Yes,” she mumbled against his jacket.  “Yes, you idiot, of course I'll marry you.” 

  He laughed, weaving his free hand in her hair.  She felt the box pressing against her back.  “I wasn’t expecting to be called an idiot, but I should have.”   

  She pulled away, tears of joy shining in her eyes.  She put her hands on either side of his face, shocked to see his eyes were watery too.  She kissed him hard, uncaring if her lipstick was smudged.   

  When they broke their kiss, he put the ring on her finger.  He hugged her again, as if scared she’d run off.   

  “Wait,” she said, pulling away again.  “Is this why Coco has been so weird lately?” 

  “Yes,” he told her with a laugh.  “She found the ring when she was in our apartment.  I was going to wait until Christmas to propose, but I didn’t think she’d make it that long.” 

  “She wouldn’t have.  I showed up to lunch in a white dress yesterday, and she almost started crying.”  She rolled her eyes and looped her arms around his neck.  They pressed their foreheads together.  

  “Thank you,” he mumbled. 

  “For what?” 

  “For putting up with me.  For being patient with me.  For loving me.” 

  “Oh, Michael.  Loving you is a privilege.” 

  “You should put that in your vows,” he joked, giving her a crooked grin. 

 _Six months later._  

Coco was crying again.  They’d reapplied her makeup three times already. 

  “Coco, please keep it together,” Mallory pleaded.   

  Her former roommate nodded and looked to the light fixture, chin wobbling. 

  “You just look  _so_ beautiful, and I'm  _so_ happy, and I  _just_ —” 

  Mallory heard her take a breath.  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.  Coco was always a lot to handle, so she’d expected this.   

  “I’m supposed to be the one freaking out, Co,” she reminded her. 

  “You’re marrying your soulmate.  There’s literally no reason to freak out.” 

  “I know,” she said, smiling growing bigger. 

  She stood to get another look in the full-length mirror.  Her wedding dress was long and from her shoulders to the neckline was white lace.  The back had about thirty small pearl buttons that were a nightmare, but a beautiful one.  Coco came over and straightened the veil on her head.  Her dress as maid of honor was a pale pink and fell to her knees.  She piled her hair high and decorated it with the same baby's breath that adorned Mallory’s hair in a “show of solidarity,” as she’d called it. 

  The two stared at each other.  Wordlessly, they wrapped their arms around each other.  Then there was a knock at the bridal suit door, and her parents entered. 

  “Ready, Sunshine?” her father asked. 

  She nodded.  The sound of the violin filled the small church, but she could scarcely hear it from behind the doors and with her heart pounding in her ears.  Her father kissed her cheek, and her mother squeezed her arm. 

  “You look beautiful, sweetie,” her mother told her, bringing a hand to her daughter’s face.   

  And then the doors opened.  Coco was smiling so wide she was practically radiating joy.  Mallory was dimly aware of the guests rising, of a cello joining the violin to play a soft sonata, of Michael’s grandparents all staring at her in adoration.  All she could really notice was him, waiting for her. 

  He looked at her like she was the most stunning creature on earth.  Like she was an angel striding towards him. 

  Their gazes never left each other until they closed their eyes to lean in for their first kiss as husband and wife.    

  Before the reception, Mallory was in the bridal suite again to change into a shorter and lighter dress.  Michael entered without warning and kissed her hard.  She kissed back with fervor, tangling her hands in his hair, though he was careful to not do the same to her carefully-made curls. 

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. 

  “So are you.” 

  “Do you think anyone noticed?”  He pressed a hand to her stomach, which had an almost imperceivable roundness to it. 

  She shook her head.  No one knew, not even Coco, for fear of her best friend getting drunk at the reception and telling their parents.  Constance, she knew, would have a heart attack. 

  “It’s our secret,” she told him.  “Well.  Ours and Dr. Jones'.” 

  He made a “hmm” sound and kissed her again.   

  _One year later_  

  Mallory held their daughter against her chest, balancing her laptop on her thighs.  She was in the final revisions of her novel, and was finding creative ways to multitask with a four-month-old baby. 

  Michael walked into the living room, bowl of cereal in hand and a slightly dazed look on his face.  She never tired of seeing him in faded sweatpants and a t-shirt stained with all manner of baby gunk.  It was so far from how he liked to be seen by anyone, even her.  Before the baby, he’d lounge around their house in designer sweats, but the exhaustion of having a newborn child meant he didn’t particularly care what he wore around the house now. 

  He silently put the cereal on the coffee table and scooped up Victoria from her chest.  She mouthed a thank you and continued writing.  He sat down, food back in hand and clicked the television on with his elbow on the remote.  This was an impressive accomplishment to Mallory, who couldn’t manage to even hold their child and type for longer than fifteen minutes before her laptop started slipping off her legs. 

  She looked over at them, Michael disheveled and tired, Victoria quiet and clutching at his shirt.  Almost absentmindedly, he pressed a kiss to the baby’s head.  It was maybe the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.  She shut the laptop and scooted closer, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.  Had someone said to her on her first day as his assistant that this was in their future, she would’ve called them delusional.  And yet, here she was, ring on her finger and baby in the house. 

  “Hey,” she said quietly, looking up at him and putting her chin on his shoulder, “I love you, M.” 

  Careful so as to not wake the baby or spill the cereal, he leaned and kissed her.  “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr at wonderfulandfanciful!


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